


Blue is Blue

by shamebucket



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Gen, Jane's Mom also makes an appearance, Overdosing, complicated familial relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27283474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamebucket/pseuds/shamebucket
Summary: "What is it that you're drawing? I'd like to see it."Jane briefly raises her eyes at Donald, nonplussed, before returning to drawing. "It's a secret.""I don't like secrets, Jane."She taps the eraser against her lips, thinking. "Nobody does, and yet we all still have them."
Relationships: Donald Margolis & Jane Margolis
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Blue is Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).



Jane is sixteen when Donald finds Jane for the first time, curled on her side and moaning. 

"Jane, you have to get up. It's Monday. We can't have you being late to school again." This isn't the first time that Jane has slept in - this year has been difficult, to say the least. Sharon and Donald have been fighting more often, and Jane seems to be taking it to heart more than Donald had hoped. He thought that maybe, because she was older, she'd take it better than if she was a young child. Things aren't exactly going as planned. She's started acting out a little. She stays up late and sneaks out to friends' houses in the middle of the night, but at the end of the day she's a good girl. A smart girl. She has talents and hobbies and friends, things to live for. She's young. Her life is vibrant and fresh. She wouldn't do anything bad. 

She doesn't stir when he calls her name. This is unusual. Normally she at least groans, or throws a pillow at him, or has _some_ sort of reaction. Regular teenager stuff, right? Even kids who aren't dealing with parents who are slowly starting to resent each other tend to have this reaction to their folks at this age. But that's not the case today. It's only now when Donald realizes that her breathing is uneven, and his paternal instincts kick into high gear. "Jane!" He rushes to her bedside and shakes her. "Jane, wake up!" 

"Don, why are you yelling?" Sharon calls from across the house. He can dully hear her footsteps as he marches up the stairs. It sounds like his heartbeat, rising in intensity. He checks Jane's pulse. It's very slow. Something is very wrong. "Oh God," Sharon says, anger sapped from her voice as she stands in the doorway. 

"Call an ambulance." Donald's voice sounds like it's coming from a different body. This doesn't feel real. "Now, Sharon!" 

She rushes out of the room towards the nearest phone. Donald isn't sure what to do. She looks almost dead. What happened to his little girl? 

The ambulance ride is a blur. They ask him all sorts of questions - what allergies does she have, has she been using any drugs. He gives answers as best as he can - _None that I know of, she doesn't do drugs,_ \- and he's at the hospital for several hours before he realizes that he needs to call work and tell them that he isn't coming in today. His boss understands. 

Donald wishes that _he_ understood, especially when he learns why Jane didn't wake when he shook her.

~~~

He keeps a more watchful eye on Jane after that. No more sneaking out at night. Curfew at 9 PM sharp, or there will be consequences. He threatens her with boarding school if he catches her doing anything fishy.

"Yeah, sure Dad," Jane says, rolling her eyes as she curls up on the couch, art pad in her lap. 

Donald looks down at the floor, and then back up at his daughter. "It's good to have an outlet for your feelings. We all feel frustrated and sad sometimes. Using art, like the way you're doing now... that's a good thing. You should keep doing that." 

Jane's eyebrows crease. "Pfft, like you're a role model for controlling your feelings." Her pencil strokes grow a touch harsher, although Donald can't see what she's drawing. She hides this from him. She almost never shows him her art these days. "You definitely did a good job at not yelling at Mom. That's why she's _still here_ , right." 

Donald clenches his jaw and takes one step forward, ready to yell, before he realizes that she's right. He should have controlled himself more. He should have listened. He should have made compromises, should have not been so stubborn -

But Jane is his daughter, not his wife. This is different. He can stand to be firm with her, maybe even more firm than he already is. He still doesn't know why she decided to turn to drugs of all things to deal with whatever problems she's having; that seems like a bit much. She said it makes things hurt less. Maybe just... being there as a father will help things hurt less. That's what fathers are for, right? 

He changes the subject. "What is it that you're drawing? I'd like to see it." 

She briefly raises her eyes at him, nonplussed, before returning to drawing. "It's a secret." 

"I don't like secrets, Jane." 

She taps the eraser against her lips, thinking. "Nobody does, and yet we all still have them."

~~~

Donald can tell that she's still using. She's too sneaky about it for him to be able to prove it, though, and before he knows it, she's made plans to move out of his house on the day that she becomes an adult. He can't force her to stay, as much as he wishes he could. Maybe if he sets her free, everything will be all right. Maybe it is that he's too overbearing, and that's why she's like this. Maybe it's all his fault.

On the Easter after her eighteenth birthday, he takes her out for lunch. She shows up looking clammy and tired, wearing all black. He thought that she would have grown out of this by now; most kids grow out of that "goth" phase before they leave high school, right? She even went and bought her own black dress for prom with God knows what money, ignoring the yellow dress that Sharon bought for her. Sharon was rightfully very upset... but Jane's dress did look nice, even if it was more scandalous than Donald had wanted or hoped for her. 

"So," he says while cutting a slice of ham, "what have you been up to since you've been emancipated from my overbearing grasp?" 

She looks out the window, fidgeting with a strand of hair. "I dunno. Stuff." 

"What sort of things have you drawn lately?" He chews. The meat is a little tougher than he'd like. 

Jane leans her elbows on the table. These aren't the table manners that he instilled in her as a child. "Oh, lots of things." Donald doesn't like the glint in her eye. "I started an apprenticeship to become a tattoo artist." 

He raises his eyebrows. "Huh. Really?" 

"Yep." She leans back. Her food remains untouched. "I haven't done any yet. My boss is legit. I'm not going to touch anyone without knowing how to handle a needle safely." (Donald suppresses a bitter laugh.) "But I've been watching a lot, and practicing some designs." She takes a sip of water. "You really need to get a sense of the person that you're tattooing, right? And everybody is so different. Everyone deserves a different design." 

Donald pauses, thinking over his question. "What would you put on me?" 

Jane's smile fades. "I don't think tattoos suit you."

~~~

He doesn't find Jane the second time, or the third time, or the fourth time. It's always a call. "Mr. Margolis? This is Lovelace Medical Center. We're calling to inform you that your daughter..."

It becomes nearly a routine. It's always Donald that comes to see her. Sharon has long since stopped trying - she thinks that Jane is a lost cause. 

But Donald can't give up on her. She's his only daughter, the daughter that he and Sharon had wanted for so long. 

"We should go to Narcotics Anonymous together," he says to her while she's still in her hospital bed. "I'll let you live with those... 'friends' of yours as long as you at least do that much." 

She shivers. She looks just as sick as she did when she was high. "I don't have a choice, do I?" 

He smiles and puts a hand over hers. "No."

~~~

Turns out that she'd rather not go to Narcotics Anonymous, and instead opts to live under Donald's watchful eye.

There's a duplex that he's been renting out. It's a small little property, but it's nice enough. It's a good neighborhood. No druggies that he knows of. Nobody who will make Jane want to relapse. One of the tenants just had their lease expire, so there's an opening. Jane has a place to stay, right where Donald knows where she is. 

"You get to stay here as long as you don't do anything stupid," he tells her, handing her the key. "Don't fuck it up, all right?" 

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, jeez, thanks for the vote of confidence." 

The fifth time, Donald finds her, an arm dangling off the sofa with a needle fallen on the floor.

~~~

The plants are yellowing when Jane gets back from rehab. It's been a long couple of weeks. While Donald knew that Jane was in good, safe hands, it felt different not having Jane being directly underneath his control for once.

"We're going to Narcotics Anonymous every weekend," Donald says, not a question or a suggestion, when he drops her off. This is happening for real. This is his last-ditch effort to make sure she stays clean. Everything else he has done has failed. If he has to hold her hand the entire way to her permanent recovery, then that's what he's going to do. A father will do anything for his children. His only child. The person most important to him. 

She looks defeated. "Yeah, sure. Okay." She takes a glass and fills it with water. "This is a good time as ever to make sure I'm flourishing, right? I definitely don't feel like I'm babied, being twenty four and having my dad watch my every move." 

"I wouldn't have to do this if you acted like an adult," Donald says, coming across harsher than intended. 

"So you can finally act like the adult here," Jane says bitterly. She waters the dying plants. He does feel a little bad for neglecting them. "And not like a child who's trying to control me." 

"I'm your father," Donald says once more, "and that's all there is to it. Maybe you'll understand when you have children." 

Jane tightens her lips. "I don't think I want children." 

"Maybe someday. Your mother and I were forty when we had you, after all." 

Jane opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and shakes her head, disappearing into her room. Donald frowns and turns to leave. Maybe this is better than arguing. It feels better than screaming at her, at least.

~~~

Things get a bit better after that. Jane stops using. Going to the meetings seems to be helping.

Jane rubs her six month chip between her thumb and index finger when they're at a celebratory dinner. "I've never gotten this far before," she tells him. "I fibbed when I was in high school. I'm sorry." 

He smiles at her. "It's all right. I'm glad that you're here now and doing so much better." She takes a bite of a hamburger. "You look alive. That's what matters now, right?" 

Jane grins back at him, sly. "Right." Something lights up on her face. "Oh, that reminds me." She pulls her bag onto her lap and pulls out her sketchpad. "I don't know if you remembered, but you asked me about what sort of tattoo I'd give you back when I first started my apprenticeship."

"I remember." Donald pokes at his asparagus. 

She slides the sketchpad across the table towards him. "Take a look." 

Donald looks at the art she drew. It's a fairly simplistic design. The blue silhouette of an airplane flies out of a black void. It looks like the void is trying to eat the airplane, but it breaks free, looking like it's going to soar far away.

"It's not as detailed as some of my other designs, but I was trying to take your skin into account," Jane says matter-of-factly. "It's different tattooing older skin. Less elastic means simpler designs work better. I think it suits you, though. Don't you think?" 

Donald runs his fingers under the wings of the plane, as if giving them wind. "I think you're right. I'm not really one for tattoos." What sort of trouble is the pilot in? How did she find herself in the darkness, without any hope of escape? Who is guiding her home? "... But I like it. It looks happy. This is very nice." He smiles at her. "Thank you, Jane."

~~~

A year later, Donald watches her get stuffed into a body bag.

It isn't exactly a shock. He's seen ambulances outside of his property far too many times. This is the conclusion that he always secretly expected. This is how addiction ends for far too many. Nobody is safe from relapse. Not even when Donald outstretches a protective wing to shield her. 

What they put into the body bag doesn't look like Jane. It's a lifelike doll, a hollow shell of the person she was before. Where is the bright humor in her eyes? The excitement? The despair? Her eyes are completely glassy and empty. 

Maybe Donald looks the same as her. He can't imagine how he must look to these people. How is one supposed to look after their only daughter has died? 

They ask him questions, and he gives answers as best he can. _April 4, 1982. Bishop. Phoenix._ But he's not exactly paying attention - the voice of the woman asking him is far away, under the sea. The questions that she's asking almost sound farcical. These aren't questions you ask a parent. They're questions you ask a child, when you're old and grey and it's your time. 

It isn't Jane's time yet. It can't be. 

There's a torn out page from Jane's sketchpad on his tenant's - Pinkman's - table. A small part of him understands that this isn't for him. It never was. But he finds himself gravitating towards it regardless. 

This might be Jane's final piece of art. Donald feels his eyes watering as he picks it up. A young woman, who looks exactly like Jane, wearing some sort of costume. "Apology Girl". 

What is Jane apologizing for? _This_? Relapsing this one last time? For being a bad daughter? For not fulfilling Donald's expectations? 

A day ago, Donald might have cared about that. Right now, he doesn't. 

He loves Jane. That's all he knows. He would love to see her again, even if it means seeing her at her worst. Apologies can come later. 

In a daze, he takes the picture with him, leaving it on his front passenger seat as he drives to the hospital. Maybe if he pretends hard enough, she will materialize in the seat next to him.

~~~

It's been less than a day since Jane overdosed for the final time.

Sharon was much more composed than Donald was expecting, but he's guessing that she feels just as numbed out as he does. She jumped into action faster, since that has always been her way of coping - easier to sweep up the ashes than to try to repair a burning building. "I'll take care of booking the church and calling the funeral home," she told him. "You just get her a nice yellow dress from her apartment." 

Donald feels like he's trespassing on his own property when he turns the key and enters her side of the duplex. She's everywhere around him - her art covers the walls, scraps of paper on her desk, notebooks and bookshelves. Behind her bed is a mural. He didn't often go into her room whenever he visited during the past year; she was sober and she deserved some level of privacy. She needed tough love when it was appropriate, but there was no reason for him to believe that barging into her sacred, special place was warranted. 

She - the woman in the mural - looks euphoric as she's wrapped in the shifting cosmos. It swallows her whole. It's like she's falling asleep, but Jane's art always had an edge to it. Donald can't help but wonder if there is a secondary meaning to this piece. It could just be that it's her bedtime - it is right behind her bed, after all - but he remembers finding her, so many times, and being so afraid that this would all eat her alive... and it did. 

The painted alarm clock doesn't tick. Everything is frozen in place. This doesn't feel real. 

He stares at the mural for longer than he should, trying to discern the individual brush strokes, trying to find a hidden message Jane might have left for him to find. Something she hid, maybe because it was too scary to share. Maybe because Jane didn't trust him. Maybe because it's easier if you don't say it out loud. 

Donald gets the feeling he understands that much. 

After several minutes, Sharon calls him, reminding him of his purpose of coming here. They're not going to have their daughter buried in a disgusting T-shirt and underwear. She needs to look nice and respectable. She needs to look like the lady they both knew that she could have been. 

"Do you think we should spend the extra money for a color program?" she asks over the phone. "We could put in some of her art, or maybe some art that her friends could draw. That might be nice. I think she might like that." 

He opens up Jane's closet door and starts looking through her clothes. "I haven't given much thought to the programs, to be honest. I guess they should be..." he sighs. "I don't know. Just use your best judgement." 

Donald digs through the closet, but he can't find what he's looking for. "There's no yellow dress here. It's all black and grey." Come to think of it, that's not much of a surprise. "When's the last time you saw her ever wearing a yellow dress?" Sharon sighs over the phone, equal parts annoyed and exhausted. She shouldn't be. Donald was the one who spent more time with her. He would know better than Sharon. 

Amid the dark sea of clothes, something catches his eye. "What about blue?" Blue's better than black, right?"

"Navy?" Sharon asks, a prickle in her voice. 

"No, no. Not dark blue. More like..." Donald feels like an idiot in this moment. He should know more about art; it was Jane's only healthy passion. Why can't he find the right name for this color? It's the same as that airplane, only a year ago. He wants to imagine her as that pilot, soaring out of the darkness. Maybe she'll fly free. It's a nice color. "Well, not super-bright, either. I mean..." He lays it down on the bed gently, remembering when her body used to fit in his arms, when she was small and things were simpler. Things changed, but Jane was always Jane, even when she was not as easy to hold. "Blue is blue."


End file.
